Soccer is my favorite sport.
I play it all the time,
dribbling the ball
in a squiggly line.
I square up for one last kick.
The net is in my sight.
I kick—the ball goes soaring.
I know I've got it right!
The crowd goes wild.
They cheer out loud.
I am the MVP—
but for the other team!
Children, pancakes, needlework
An initial draft, a first book
It’s no surprise they came out weird
No matter what pains you took
The first one is the practice one
You need it, to make a start
It’s okay, it won’t be perfect;
We weren’t expecting a work of art
It’ll be squiggly around the edges
Details not well defined
Awkward, clunky, unpolished
Scruffy and unrefined
If you haven’t got the knack yet
It’s understandable, you’re new
You’re learning how to unlock your skills;
What you should and shouldn’t do
You have to make the cringey first one
So your deftness can grow wild
The next attempt will be infinitely better
By B Philippe (a second child)
I blew out the candles
Someone nudged me and uttered, 'That's another 1400% of bacteria.'
I said, 'Everything's about opinions, innit?'
My friend showed me his coding work
Squiggly lines all over the screen
I said, 'I really don't care.'
We went to see the stage play of Murder on the Orient Express
The following week my son told me,
'I feel like I might be murdered any second.'
Door knockers are pretentious.
No one but me knows what desolation means.
It’s that pinprick.
Becomes a square.
People assume things.
Squiggly lines.
Waves and t-shirts that I don’t wear anymore.
No one eats in the kitchen on the floor.
When there are chairs and a table.
There’s such a thing as desolation.
Believe me.
Like napkins cleaning up messes that are too big.
Crumpled and dreary juice in a puddle.
So am I.
No one but me knows what desolation means.
It does go away sometimes.
Comes back later that week.
Always on a relaxing Sunday at 6:00 pm.
There are a lot of mathematical equations out there.
No one bothers with them.
Desolation.
I’m the last one left.
Who knows.
Who knows?
Squiggly lines, short and tall lines. Back in a classroom eating a box lunch with Donna, my attentive husband and other strangers.
—by Poet
pie charts & graphs
nodding
need coke & understanding
flipping
pages & eyelids
nibbling
caffeinated cookie
all
the way through
presentation
I scribble, scrabble, scratch and scrawl
Squiggly words on walls down the hall
I am a scribe, and I must write
Sentences flowing out of sight
Some people might not be able to comprehend
My ideas are pushing and prodding me to begin
I have a pencil or pen in my hand every day.
Almost every moment is grand, writing is play.
I taste your rush as I resist,
closer, our words converge in breath,
your wishes growing heavier with each sigh.
But then, on a night of snowy silver saga,
your embrace led me to a silhouette of sonnet,
weaving poetic pleasures within mere seconds.
Do not offer me kindness without your demons,
for my shadows feel safer with monsters,
and my songs soften with angelic treasures.
Only then can my skin rest on gentle knees,
as I come in a bowl of swirling squiggly scars,
a spoonful of sweet sarcasm and sour storms.
Am I your final retreat?
I’ve read haikus carved on petals of pain,
they moved the sands in my mind,
but never like a thrilling hurricane.
So dig deep beneath those desires,
let the beast loose from its wires,
while the feathers in your heart ignite a trail of dancing fires.
Flora caught some fireflies
in her little jar one night.
She once caught some butterflies,
but they did not glow as bright.
She also caught cicadas,
and she housed them in a tin;
in the night, they made a buzz,
which was a terrible din.
Spiders, too, she kept at home
and she named them Jeb and Deb,
around her room, they would roam
stop in corners, make a web.
She once kept a little worm,
a squiggly little fellow,
that made her mother squirm,
she named this one Othello!
Flora kept all creepy things
even once a bumbly bee.
In the end, they all had wings;
as each morn, she set them free.
I am a mouse and I can hide most anywhere
behind your walls I sleep and snore
like a little squiggly tot without a care
I am a mouse and I don't care who knows it
I am a mouse who loves to nest and burrow
inside a cluttered house quite often ignored
like the fluffy dust settled beneath your table
I am a mouse with a passion for cables
I am a mouse with a slightly pointed nose
often I avoid your traps and poisoned bait
eating most anything you leave behind
I am a mouse and I live like a Sovereign King
inside your basement, behind the cabinet, I found
an old cel phone and guess what?... I got internet !
sun …
glints off sweaty trickles as
they plop … plop …
little lad’s littler fingers tickling a
tide pool’s papery face
things of mysterious intention, darting
there to here to there …
wide eyes wider in amazement
tiny thrums quick’ning
dividing breaths
like swells divide the time
and tides …
a splash and a grasp, tightening
some small watery beast
cold-red cheeks blooming wide to
parody the dazzled bay
grins and giggles to mock the black-backs
for this shrimpy monster, squirming
is the prize of a wee fist
gamboling its way to
proffer some mad-mommy shrieks -
slimy and squiggly and
oh, so wondrous!
hunter, home from the hill
Ahab and his white sea demon
perfectly prideful,
invested surety of a silly smile
warmed by the sooty
afternoon …
sun.
Copyright © Gregory Richard Barden, June 9, 2024
On a ship of fools without direction,
Along a circuitous trajection,
Sailors from every land and nation
Drift not by chart, but hallucination,
And their lofty voices, at once speaking
A bit louder than the planks are creaking,
Floating forever on waves, so giggly,
Along a foamy blue course, so squiggly -
Or will their cruise end, as the surf goes splash,
And they laugh madly, while on rocks they crash?
You cannot have that face. It doesn't belong to you.
Try some other image, but not those star eyes of blue.
Red is fine for lips, but not those squiggly lines at edge.
Original face required, when you take the circus clown pledge.
Have you hugged a llama today
Or a bunny or a kangaroo
You'll feel all squiggly and giggly inside
And a bit rumpity bumpity too
Not only will you feel all squiggly inside
But these guys will be wearing a grin
They sure like receiving those huggeroonies
You'll notice their tails start to spin
So if you spy a sad looking teddy
Or a kitten with eyes full of tears
Tell them you love 'em and hold 'em tight
You'll chase away all of their fears
Tonight when mommy tucks you in
And gives you a big snuffily kiss
Remember the lonely animals out there
Blow them a kiss and don't miss
There's a moral here, haven't found it yet
Maybe it's hiding under a chair
Hugging llamas and other poor creatures
Really tells them you care
The English are a lazy species.
They use the squiggly ampersand
to save a second and not bother
with 'and'.
A squiggly green worm,
Feeding on the leaf,
Wiggly, she does squirm,
My plant's silent thief,
She is bloated big,
Watching me wide-eyed,
Placed her on a twig,
And left her outside,
The chubby worm green,
Wriggled to a plant,
Then in silky sheen,
Sweet sleep does enchant,
Feeling a bit strange,
She closes her eye,
All ready for change,
Soon, a butterfly.
13th March 2023
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